Chapter 2: Isla Sorna
The ketch creaked and groaned as the tropical storm filled its sail with wind from multiple different directions. The main mast swayed dangerously from side to side in the torrent, the metal ring and rivets holding it to the deck straining to hold it against the awesome power forcing it around. Four of the five-man crew of the small 1978 Shannon huddled in the below-deck quarters, while the captain stood on deck securing the sail and tying down anything he couldn't bring below decks with the men. His rain coat was being hit with so much rain, the sound was similar to radio static. His face stung from the repetitive impacts of raindrops on his face and windburn. The man tying everything down had a plain, cream-colored face, an average nose, solid brown eyes that were narrowed by years at sea, a muscular and toned physique, a large bushy brown beard, and a narrow mouth.
As he tied everything down, he muttered to himself, frustrated. He'd been hired only 3 weeks before to take a boat to Costa Rica. He'd been paid by a mysterious corporation refusing to be named paid him a large sum of money to sail into Costa Rican waters. The area he'd been paid to sail into was under high security by the Costa Rican government for strange reasons he was uninformed on. Since he'd gotten within twenty miles of his destination, he'd been bombarded by messages from Costa Rican vessels informing him he was trespassing and would be deported or imprisoned if he did not change his course. He wasn't worried, though. If he did get caught, which was unlikely, he'd frozen dozens of dozens of local fish that were commonly purchased on the mainland as a cover story. Besides, the money was too good to back out on for him.
Ever since 2008, when he'd been released from prison, which he'd been in due to smuggling cocaine from Columbia to the United States, he'd been refining his skills of discreet and tactical movement of goods anywhere he was paid to. He'd even refined his skills to the point that he was able to hide his movements from even most military equipment and searches.
Once he was done securing the sail and everything on deck, he returned below decks with the men, where he found them devouring the M.R.E.'s he'd brought. While they ate, they watched the local news. These men had been with him since he started the secretive shipment business. They were extremely professional, knowing what to do if the plan went awry. They listened to the people babbling on in Spanish, talking about lotteries and other nonsense that meant nothing to them. They only watched to ensure there was nothing about any of their clients. If the client went down, the operation they were on was off and they disappeared from each others' lives until the next job.
"Well, fellas," said the captain of the crew, "We're gonna have to complete the op tomorrow. The storm will be lessened in the vicinity but it could still beat the fuck out of us. So when you get on deck tomorrow, everyone harness themselves to the railing. We don't need anyone going overboard. Once we get to the islands, we search the island for wildlife, taking photos of it all, and we get the fuck out. Sound like a plan?"
"Why the fuck are we going tomorrow during the storm," said the youngest member of the group. He was slightly on edge from the storm's torrent outside. "The storm will kill us."
"This isn't our first operation, kid," replied an older man who was eating a beef roast meal. His mouth, full of beef roast, was full of rotted teeth. He was bald and had deep blue eyes. "You haven't seen us work in a storm yet. We'll make it there, alright. Just you wait and see."
The young man nodded, but said nothing more.
"Anyway, the Costa Rican government won't believe we made it through alive if we go during the storm," explained the captain. "This little ketch is a tough one, though. However, I would underestimate her under anyone else's command. But it's my boat and I am going to get her through."
With that, the group finished dinner, turning off the television and went to their bunks. The older man approached the door to the deck and stared out. Every hour, during the night, the men each took watch to ensure they weren't boarded or scuttled. The day ahead was too important to the men to let something small hinder their operation.
The Doppler radar displayed the tropical storm in shades of green, yellow, and red, depending on the severity, as well as a three-dimensional model to show the total area it covered. The images spun as the radar displayed the motion of the storm throughout the previous three hours. The swirling mass had only a small portion still hanging over the ketch's location, but, despite the size of the portion, the wind and rain tore at the ketch dangerously.
The crew stood against the wind and rain, cringing against the horrific conditions, some checking their tethers to the rails. The ketch shook and shuddered against the wind, attempting to push through the bombarding waves and stinging rain. The sail was tied up but they didn't need it. The back-up motor pushed them along at a speed of 17 knots, the narrow front slicing through the oncoming waves. The boat rocked and swayed through the weather, moving toward a dark, ominous shadow.
Below decks, one crew mate prepared the camera equipment. The video camcorder was similar to those used by professional reporters and the Canon camera he was using for photography had a 500 millimeter zoom extension on it, specially designed for long distance shots. The camera had also been modified to take multiple images per second, enabling a person to pull an image that is clear enough from the frames. The equipment was almost completely assembled and ready, allowing the man to return to the deck.
Once he was above decks, he realized they were only a mile from the sheer cliffs of the island, "Isla Sorna" it was called on the map. The wind had died down substantially, so the ketch was moving much smoother through the water.
"Michael!" the man shouted to the captain. When the captain turned his head to look at him, he continued, "The equipment is ready. We need to hurry, though. Our time frame before the Costa Rican's look for wreckage isn't very long. An hour, perhaps two."
Michael nodded. He pushed the throttle for the engine forward, completely and the ketch launched forward, doubling its previous speed. He turned the ship only 200 yards before the cliff and began circling the island, looking for an entrance to the island. There seemed to be a large 100,000 volt fence forming a perimeter around the entirety of the island. The island's misty cliffs made peering deeper to the island's interior difficult, if not, impossible. The man with the camera and camcorder, Alex Harty, handed the camera to the elderly man of the group, named Arthur Windslow. He pressed the "Record" button on the side of the camcorder and tried zooming in on the peak of the cliff.
"What do ya see," shouted Michael.
"Nothing useful," replied Alex. His thin yet muscular arms held the camera as steady as possible despite the rocking of the boat. His blonde hair and goatee waved wildly in the wind, sometimes invading his green eyes and forcing him to clear it from his face before continuing to film.
"Keep looking," Michael ordered.
Alex gave him a thumbs-up with one hand and continued filming.
The youngest of the group, James Winthrop, looked around the ship nervously as his anxiety shook him. His shock of dark brown hair on his head fluttered slightly, his arms, though toned, were thin, and his brown eyes flinched whenever rain hit his face.
"What are we supposed to be finding on this island, exactly?" he asked Michael.
"Some type of wildlife," Michael stated, indifferently.
"What exactly, though?"
"Does it matter?" Michael shouted. "What matters is that we're getting paid to take video and pictures of animals running around on an island. Paid very well, I might add."
James opened his mouth to rebuke, but he couldn't find the courage to stand up to the captain on such a weak premise as being afraid. He looked at the captain and nodded, once again, before remaining silent.
"Michael!" shouted the only other man in the group. His bushy red beard waved in the wind as he looked toward the captain, pointing at a large gap in the fencing covering the island, perhaps a quarter mile wide, with a small river flowing into the island.
The river, perhaps only thirty feet deep, was only twice as wide as the ketch, allowing them to enter and ride into the heart of the island, with some aid from the engine. They took the boat up the river for perhaps half a mile before dropping anchor and securing everything above decks. Once that task was complete, the small group congregated below decks to prepare for their venture into the island.
Michael brought five large cases out from the captain's quarters, laying them down on the beds, table and countertops. He opened each case gently, being careful not to disturb the equipment within.
In the first case, a pile of four M-16A-2's lay next to a pile of five chest holsters holding six spare magazines and two pistols, one Magnum Research model 1911, and one Beretta 9mm, in each. Every member of the group looked upon the weapons curiously, when James voiced his question.
"Why do we need guns?" he asked, confused. "What kind of wildlife are you expecting to see?"
"I don't know," Michael replied as he began opening the second case, containing Dragonskin-Kevlar vests and helmets. "But I'd rather have all of this and not need it, then need it and not have it."
James, after some hesitation, put on a vest and holster. He checked the security on the pistols in the holster before grabbing his M-16, slinging it over his shoulder, and placing a helmet on his head. Once all the gear was securely strapped on, he looked at the other three cases and motioned toward them when he was cut off by Michael.
"What's in those?" James asked, pointing at the cases.
"Explosives. If we find a need for these two," he said, pushing two of the remaining three cases away, "we may as well be dead."
Michael smiled, opening the case to reveal a .416 Barret, military-grade sniper-rifle. He brought the man with the bushy red beard over to the case and helped him assemble the weapon from the individual parts. Once assembly was complete, the man stood tall and loaded a magazine with fifteen rounds in it. He strapped another three magazines to his chest before jogging above decks and off the boat, running off into the jungle surrounding them.
"Alright gents," said Michael, loading a round into the chamber of his M-16. "Let's get this done and head out."
To each man, he handed a radio, hidden in a compartment beneath the sniper-rifle. He turned each to the channel four and handed every man one, except the sniper, who had the base handset. The sniper buzzed onto the radio, telling them to synchronize their watches and, when that was complete, explained their window was only two hours.
Once this was complete, they all agreed on total radio silence unless help was needed, in which case, an emergency number was available on the side of the radio handset. All the men circled up once off the ship and began to move out.
Quickly, the men realized there were dozens of trails leading to dozens of places around the island. The trails wound wildly throughout the island, leading the men to unexpected places throughout the island. One trail led the men towards a cliff, unsurprisingly. What surprised the men about the cliff, however, was that there appeared to the remains of a heavily armored recreational vehicle broken on the rocks at the base.
As they followed the trail, they came across a road carved through the dense jungle. Miraculously, the gravel road seemed to have been used quite frequently throughout its existence. In fact, the men observed, the road seemed to have been used recently by something very large and very heavy. Due to the gravel, however, they couldn't find tracks to follow. Instead, they simply used the road to navigate through the heavy jungle. The mountain at the edge of the island overlooked the men and they knew they were being watched over by the sniper.
The men continued down the road when they saw the remains of a building standing against the decades, crumbling but trying to stand against the onslaught of time. Vines and other plant-life overtook the structure, trying to break it down to rubble. They approached the building cautiously, checking their surroundings and swinging their rifles from side to side, scanning the area.
As the men proceeded through the jungle's mists along the road, noises in the bushes on both sides of them seemed to come alive as small, unseen creatures rustled the leaves and branches of the foliage. The tiny animals sounded like birds, but none of the men recognized the calls. The man with the camcorder zoomed in on the bush as a small, green, lizard-like head with dark eyes and brown stripes popped out, staring at the men, curiously. The men, curious to see the tiny creature, gathered around the bush, all trying to get a look at it.
As the men huddled closer to the bush, the animal became frightened and darted back into the foliage and fast away from all the men.
"James," Michael said, quietly. "Did you get a good look at it?"
James nodded, his face masqueraded with a look of shear confusion.
"You know most of the local reptiles, right?"
"I've looked into them and remember a lot of them," replied James, "but that was nothing that I've seen in the books before."
Michael's brow furrowed as he considered what this could mean. Many of the birds above the men chirped and chattered fiercely as the men all awaited the captain's order to continue.
"Hey Mike," a harsh whisper echoed in the headset.
Michael was surprised to here the sniper call him up and, instantly, told the men to circle up with hand signals, looking for the situation that had forced his sniper to break radio silence.
"What is it?" Michael prompted, quietly. His eyes scanned the dense jungle around them and he focused on listening intently as his nerves went on end.
"There's something big moving through the trees and shit right up here in front of me. I don't know what it is, but it's big. Almost as big as a man, if not bigger."
"Could it be one of the Costa Ricans?"
A small hiss of static before the sniper replied, "Not a chance. Our window lasts for another hour. Not to mention these islands are uninhabited."
"Is that thing still moving out there?"
A few moments of silence passed as the sniper observed his surroundings, Michael was sure.
"Whatever it is has either hidden from me or run off. Everything should be good to go. If there is anymore trouble from whatever it was, I'll just shoot it with my silenced 1911."
Michael thought for a moment before he stood slowly, signaling all the others to stand as well. All of them were cautious as they stood, scanning the foliage for the shadow the man had seen.
"Alright," Michael said after the men had all stood and begun to stretch, "let's keep mo-"
A sharp scream blasted their ear drums over the radio and gun shots rang throughout the jungle. Many of the men reached up to their ears, turning the volume down on their headsets.
"Jim?" Michael shouted into the headset. "JIM?!"